Coerced (Billionaire romance): Blackmailed by the Billionaire (Buchanan Romance Book 1)
COERCED
Blackmailed by the Billionaire
By Alexx Andria
COERCED
By Alexx Andria
© 2015 Alexx Andria. All rights reserved.
No part of this NOVEL may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to an actual person is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Kim Van Meter
The following NOVEL is approximately 45,000 words and an original work of fiction.
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Nobody says no to billionaire Sutton Buchanan. Nobody with a survival instinct or an ounce of common sense, anyway. That’s because he’s a cruel, ruthless bastard who will stop at nothing to get what he wants – including the curvy blonde artist who just gave him the brush-off.
Elizabeth Downing is desperate and time is running out. Her one chance at landing an exhibition at the Covington Art Museum has been shot down in flames. The shy, insecure artist can’t give her art away, much less sell it. How was she going to continue supporting her disabled sister, without selling off a kidney?
Unfortunately for Elizabeth, her family tragedy is Sutton’s opportunity. Sutton makes Elizabeth a shocking offer that no good man would ever suggest. But Sutton has never pretended to be a good man.
Now he’s going to own her — body and soul.
He’s going to push past her limits.
He’s going to see where her breaking point is.
But he won’t make the same mistake his cousins made by falling in love with his plaything. Elizabeth’s about to find out, the words “love” and “mercy” aren’t in Sutton Buchanan’s vocabulary.
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Sutton Buchanan idly walked the upscale Covington Art House. His bored gaze flicked with disinterest over the current pieces gracing the exhibit walls.
When had art become so damn boring? Blah, blah, blah, the same old shit on every wall. No sense of emotion or passion.
Wasn’t that what art was supposed to do? Spark some kind of reaction?
Hell, he was no fucking art major but this shit?
Boring as fuck.
Sutton rounded the corner and nearly ran into a short, round, plainly agitated blonde who dropped her art portfolio with a small shriek at the unexpected contact.
“Oh! Ohmygracious! Sorry...” She pushed her glasses deeper on the bridge of her nose and then bent to collect her spilled artwork, her small hands fluttering with anxiety as she attempted to quickly grab her art and bail. It was then he realized she was crying.
Intrigued, Sutton began to help but she brushed him off.
“I got it, thanks.” She sniffed and shoved the artwork deeper in her bag before hustling off, leaving Sutton with a very nice view of her generous ass. That was one squeezable, spankable behind, he thought with interest.
Long blonde hair trailed down her back in gentle curls and waves and he was struck with the image of twisting that gorgeous mane in his palm, bowing the woman as he rammed his cock between those luscious cheeks.
Amusement curled his lips, his licentious thoughts interrupted by the effeminate voice of the art house director. “Mr. Buchanan...what a pleasure.”
With a small sigh of regret, he turned to accept the limp handshake of the director. “Mr. Polk, I presume?”
“You presume correct,” Polk tittered, clasping his hands together before gesturing toward his office. “Let us discuss business in my office...or should I say, your office?” He tittered again, believing himself clever. “To be owned by a Buchanan...one can only dream.”
Sutton suffered a short smile for the sake of the director. Buchanan Enterprises had recently acquired Covington Art House and his west coast cousins, Dillon, Vince and Nolan — otherwise known as the cocksuckers — had foisted the details onto him to smooth out.
Polk drifted into a seat like a butterfly and graced Sutton with a blinding, too-white smile. “What do you think of Covington? Honest opinions, please.”
“I think it’s fucking boring,” Sutton returned easily, enjoying Polk’s instant wilting. “It’s stuffy and staid. My grandmother has edgier art in her bathroom than this place. It’s a wonder you’ve managed to keep the doors open.”
Clearly not the reaction Polk had been expecting but Sutton enjoyed putting people off their game.
And the man had asked for honesty.
“I see,” Polk straightened, losing his flirty behavior and stiffening a little. “We have some of the most esteemed artists of the area gracing our walls. What exactly do you find so boring, as you say?”
Sutton shrugged. “There’s no life. There’s no danger, no sense of challenge. The artists are comfortable and it comes out in their work.”
“I see,” Polk repeated, uncomfortable. “Well--“
“Tell me about the artist that left in tears...the girl.”
Polk stared blankly. “The girl?”
“Yeah, the one that left minutes ago. What’s her story?”
Suddenly remembering, Polk gave a small dismissive shudder. “The fat one?”
Sutton smiled coldly. “Yes.”
Polk must’ve sensed he was on dangerous ground.
“Oh, um, well, her art was decent enough but here at Covington we cultivate a certain image and she doesn’t fit within our vision for the exhibit. She’s a train wreck,” he finished as if it should be obvious. “Can you imagine her walking around our clientele? She’d scare away business.”
Pretentious prick. “Shouldn’t the art sell the work, not the artist?” he pointed out, enjoying watching the man squirm.
“Of course,” Polk agreed quickly, bobbing his shaved head. “But...times today...it’s all about the visuals, as you would agree. It takes more than talent.”
Sutton could give a rat’s ass about the art. He wanted to know more the woman. “What’s her name?”
Polk stared a moment then, realizing Sutton was waiting impatiently, he moved quickly to find her resume. “Ahhh, yes, her name is Elizabeth Downing,” he read from the paper, handing the resume to Sutton when he gestured brusquely. “Young, local artist. Hard-luck story. Something about her parents dying and leaving her with a disabled sister to care for. Tragic. But...what are we? Social services?”
“And what did you say to her that made her cry?”
Polk, plainly nervous, answered, “I simply said she wasn’t right for our exhibit. I certainly didn’t mean to make her cry.”
“Of course not.”
He folded the resume and placed it in his interior suit pocket. He was no longer interested in Polk or the art house. But since Dillon had put him in charge of this project, he’d have some fun of his own.
“Things are going to change around here,” he told Polk. “No more of this same shit on the walls. Move me, Polk, or else, I’ll find a director with real vision. Understand?”
“O-of course, Mr. Buchanan.” Polk’s adam’s apple bobbed. “I will do my best.”
Sutton winked as he rose. “Do better than your best,” he advised and left the man wondering how the hell he was going to please Sutton, which was exactly how he li
ked to leave people.
Besides, his thoughts were already returning to the delectable Miss Downing.
He’d only seen her for seconds but he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
For someone like Sutton, that was quite addictive. Most people bored him.
He roamed the downtown plaza, hands stuffed into his pockets, his mind moving. He needed more information about the little curvy artist. A sudden smile formed as he warmed to an idea that immediately chased away the pervasive ennui that dogged him.
A project.
Yes...that’s exactly what he needed.
A project with nice, fat, lickable tits and an ass that made him want to bite.
Hello, Elizabeth Downing — you don’t know this yet but you’re going to be mine.
***
Elizabeth wasn’t a crier by nature but goddamn, couldn’t she catch a break?
She stared down at the letter in her hand from the state.
All that mattered was the paragraph that read, “Due to state-mandated budget cuts, care for disabled minors without life-threatening disabilities will discontinue as of their 18th birthday. Please make arrangements for your charge as benefits are slated to discontinue.”
Her younger sister, Gretchen, was currently living in a very nice facility for autistic children.
The plan had been to transition her to the adult facility of the same company but it was very pricey and without the state’s help, there was no way Elizabeth could manage the payments on her meager waitressing salary and tips.
Gretchen was two months away from turning eighteen.
Two months wasn’t long enough to figure out a new plan seeing as her hope of landing a spot at Covington House had gone down in flames.
That prancy art director had all but turned his nose up at her as he’d dashed her dreams without a second thought.
She’d even sacrificed her dignity and hoped to appeal to his sense of charity by sharing her particularly situation with her sister but she’d embarrassed herself for nothing. The man had been made of stone.
Her gaze wandered her tiny apartment and she suffered a moment of pure panic.
Art supplies were everywhere. Any useable space had been commandeered for her art, from brushes to canvases, she squeezed her art into every nook and cranny available.
How was she going to care for Gretchen in a one-bedroom? Gretchen was nonverbal and prone to violence when frustrated.
Their parents had found Rising Dawn before they’d been unexpectedly killed in a drunk driving accident three years ago and Gretchen was so happy there.
What was Elizabeth going to do aside from sell a kidney to keep Gretchen in a safe place?
Elizabeth dropped the hateful letter to the kitchen counter and was just about to grab something to eat when a knock at the door startled her.
She wasn’t accustomed to visitors — let’s be honest, she didn’t actively seek out friendships, choosing to keep to herself — and she didn’t exactly have the cash to online shop so she was a little wary of unexpected visitors.
Going to the door, she peeped through the peephole, sucking in a shocked breath when she saw the man who’d nearly knocked her soul from her body at the art house. What was he doing here? The bigger question being, how’d he find her?
Elizabeth bit her lip, rising on her tip toes to look again. That suit probably cost more than her entire monthly budget. Dark hair, sharply brushed and held in place with salon product — no dollar store hairspray for him — and wow, those blue eyes were a crime.
Okay, so now what?
Just continue to stare at him through the peephole like some weirdo who chews on her hair when no one is looking?
“Miss Downing, open the door. I know you’re home.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth. He knew her name? “Who are you?” she called out. “I don’t know you.”
“Open the door and you’ll find out.” There was a firm air of command to his tone that sent shivers down her back. He didn’t look like a killer. But then, Ted Bundy had been a handsome dude with a psychotic streak. She gave a final look through the peephole. Certainly karma couldn’t be that cruel as to send a killer to her door when her day had already been pretty crappy, right?
Shaking her head at her own misgivings, she slowly opened the door to regard the handsome stranger warily. “What can I do for you?”
“Invite me in.”
“That’s what vampires say,” she murmured without thinking, her cheeks heating when she realized she might’ve just revealed that she didn’t spend much time around actual people.
His even smile revealed nice, white teeth but no fangs. That was a good sign. She stepped aside and let him enter her apartment.
He perused her apartment for a long moment and then made himself comfortable on her sofa, lounging even. “Nice place,” he said finally and she frowned.
“Who are you?”
“Sutton Buchanan.”
Buchanan...name sounded familiar. A memory surfaced and her eyes widened. “Of THE Buchanans? As in Buchanan Enterprises?” One of Forbes richest men in the world. Top 100 for sure.
“So you’ve heard of my family?” He smiled, knowing full well that she had. “Good. Then you know that I’m accustomed to getting what I want.”
Elizabeth chaffed at the arrogance in his tone. “What could you possibly want from me? I have nothing to offer someone like you.”
“You haven’t heard my offer.”
Offer? “What are you talking about?” Suddenly, her hopes rose. Maybe this had something to do with the art house! “Did Mr. Polk change his mind? Is he willing to feature my art in the upcoming exhibit?”
He chuckled and flicked imaginary lint from his pant leg. “Tell me about your sister.”
Elizabeth drew back. “What?”
“Your sister. She has...issues?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks stung and she cursed her decision to share anything personal with that worm Polk. “Why?”
“Because I want to hear it from your own lips.”
“My personal information is not for your entertainment,” she said stiffly, wishing she hadn’t let the man into her house.
As it was he was sucking up all the oxygen in the tiny apartment because she couldn’t quite catch her breath and she was intensely aware of every beat of her heart.
“I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place. It was a moment of bad judgment and I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t rub my nose in it.”
Sutton drew a quick breath as if finished with the small talk and said, “Buchanan Enterprises owns Covington House. A recent acquisition that I questioned until running into you. Let’s just say, you’ve made everything much more interesting and I’m inspired to embark on a project.”
“A project?” she repeated, confused and more than a little wary. “What kind of project?”
He ignored her direct question and rose to wander to the window, glancing down at the street and back to her. “This place is abysmal.”
“It’s what I could afford.”
“Exactly.”
She glared. “Did you come here for a purpose?”
His gaze raked her body and she stuttered at the blatant perusal. Had he just...? Elizabeth blushed, thrown off by the interest in his gaze. Men like Sutton Buchanan — fit, suave, devastatingly handsome and virile — did not look at Elizabeth like Sutton was right now.
“I’m a direct man, Miss Downing. Shall I present my terms?”
Terms? “What are you talking about?”
“I want you.”
“M-me? Want me for what?”
Sutton’s answering smile made her heart stop. He couldn’t mean...? He cleared up her confusion. “The simple answer is I want to fuck you but that’s not the whole of it. I want to own you. Body and soul. I want to strip you naked and make you suck my cock at a moment’s notice. I want to watch you come when I snap my fingers. I want you to be at my beck and call. My own personal little sweet slu
t and I’m willing to pay for it.”
For a long moment all Elizabeth could do was stare in utter shock.
He’d just propositioned her.
Sutton Buchanan, one of the richest men in the world had just asked her to be his whore.
What the hell was this world coming to? Was this a prank?
An ugly thought came to her.
“Because I’m fat? Is that it? You think you can make me a disgusting offer like that just because I should be grateful that anyone would want to fuck me, much less a man like you?”
Her eyes burned with sudden tears but she held them back. She wasn’t going to cry twice in one day!
He laughed at her fears. “You say fat, I say soft and squeezable.”
Elizabeth was still reeling from his indecent offer. Did this actually happen to real people? “I don’t understand...” that was all she could manage at the moment.
Sutton seized the opportunity to keep talking as if it were completely normal to blatantly proposition a complete stranger.
“Here’s what I propose: I will take care of your sister’s housing issue and persuade Polk to reconsider your position as a Covington House artist, as well as pay you an exorbitant sum as compensation for your role.” He flicked a dismissive glance at her apartment. “Enough to move out of this disgusting hovel for starters and buy a real car.”
He’d seen her busted down Honda? “There’s nothing wrong with my car. It gets me to where I’m going.”
“You’re going nowhere,” he pointed out cruelly. “You need connections and I can provide them. In the art world, talent isn’t enough.”
She hated that he was right. How long had she been trying to gain some traction only to find the doors slamming shut for one reason or another?
She was at the point where giving up was hovering at the edge of her mind but she simply couldn’t imagine life without her art.
Art had kept her sane when her entire world had crumbled.
Art kept her going when she wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
“My art is everything,” she said in an anguished whisper, mostly to herself.
“I would allow you sufficient breaks to work on your art,” he allowed as if being magnanimous, then added with a shrug, “I might enjoy watching you paint naked.”